


Prince of Ashes

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Foreshadowing, Gen, M/M, Passive-aggression, Politics, Pre-Series, Unresolved Sexual Tension, i guess, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 20:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: The comparison might seem to come from nowhere to some, and Varys certainly isn't going to the first one to make it aloud. Lord Baelish is but a minor lackey of the treasury, whereas he – still – is Master of Whispers. Some would say there is no reason to think of the two in the same league at all.But Varys knows better.





	Prince of Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 1 of asoiaf rarepair week, the prompt: Ashes/Snowflakes.

The boy from the Fingers comes with the aura of a foreigner, much like Varys himself, although he does not get quite the same glances of scorn and suspicion. _At least he's from Westeros,_ their King's Landing courtiers think with a haughty turn of their nose, _at least he has a title. At least he has a cock._ Yes, in every regard, Petyr Baelish is much more designed to walk these gilded halls than he is.

Of course, the comparison might seem to come from nowhere to some, and Varys certainly isn't going to the first one to make it aloud. Lord Baelish is but a minor lackey of the treasury, whereas he – still – is Master of Whispers. Some would say there is no reason to think of the two in the same league at all.

But Varys knows better.

They do not know each other well yet, he barely glimpses the boy trailing in Jon Arryn's footsteps. That is curious. Lord Arryn is a kindly man, does not think anything of the boy (or his young wife, rather) he brought to the city getting maybe a cut above his station – he clearly thinks it just the eagerness of a young man to prove himself. Varys, however, notes Petyr's boldness.

“ _Lord_ Varys,” Petyr greets him one day in the corridors, which just a hint too much emphasis on that first word – he already knows Varys has no title, and so will subtly remind him of it if he can. Varys gathers that means very much to Lord Baelish: he may be lord of nothing but a few rocks and sheep in the Vale, but he is a lord, which means he can still consider himself above some. Like Varys, for instance.

Of course, Varys can let him think that.

“Lord Baelish,” he says politely, with no hint in his voice that he considers this man worth thinking about at all.

“I thought I would find you here,” Baelish adds cheerfully.

Varys raises an eyebrow, curious and entertained. “Find me where?” he asks, because it's not like where they are is particularly singular.

“In the shadows,” comes the answer, and well – Varys didn't quite expect that.

He's hardly going to show it, though. “Is this the shadows?” he says, peering out the window into glimmering sunlight. “A pity. And it's such a lovely day out too.”

Petyr laughs. “I wouldn't know I'm afraid. They keep us locked in the treasury vaults you see, counting coins night and day.” A jape, clearly, but something more than that too. _Interesting._ “What about you, my lord?” he asks. “Do the secrets of the realm ever give you a break?”

“Well, at least they get me out and about,” he says.

Lord Baelish takes a step forward, staring him down. It is, in all honestly, a little unsettling. Most people find him so discomforting to look at they avoid it whenever possible, but Petyr Baelish shows no such fear. He is bold, isn't? “I'm sure,” he says. “I was surprised, you know – when people spoke of the king's eunuch, the spider, this lurking terror of the city... I did not expect you to look so young.”

Varys is genuinely taken aback at that – he knows he is young, if not as young as Lord Baelish, and he looks younger, as men of his condition often do. But he has not met many who would say such a thing; not since he walked the streets in Essos, after all. “Is that a compliment?” he asks.

“It can be if you like,” Lord Baelish tells him, green-grey eyes flickering. “Is that what you would like, compliments?”

Varys has no reason to want anything of this man, and so he just laughs. “I hope you don't think you can seduce me, my lord,” he says. He of course has heard all the rumours about his predilections – and finds them amusing, given how much more exciting they are than the facts of the matter. He supposes it comes with being the foreigner with no cock, after all. These people think he must have brought some strange Essosi sin with him, as if their continent had any lack of that.

“Perhaps I could, perhaps I couldn't.” Petyr takes another step closer. “I suspect it's been so long since anybody tried, who knows if it would work? Perhaps even the Spider himself doesn't know.”

Varys swallows a lump in his throat – he does know, of course. It's not because nobody's tried, although no, they haven't for a long time – he's never had the interest, that's all. He's glad of that, it makes things simpler. Lord Baelish, he suspects, for all he carries on like wisdom on legs, will follow his cock to an early grave.

“But it doesn't matter,” he continues, “I don't like that plan. It's not my style.”

 _Is that so?_ Varys wonders, given how closely the boy came on Lady Lysa's heels – he did hear rumours from Riverrun that there was something very strange about how quick she was wed – but that is a truth for another day. “And what, pray tell, plan do you prefer?” he queries.

“Oh, what do you think I'm planning?”

In truth, Varys hasn't the faintest idea. That worries him. He has gotten so used to being able to see through everyone around him, someone who is not so simple leaves him stumbling.

With another step, there is a finger curled underneath his chin. Varys shudders. _He forgets his station,_ but of course, he is a commoner and Petyr, a lord.

“You look Essosi,” he declares. “As far as I can tell, anyway. It is no crime. This city could do with new men like us in it.” Varys stares up at him suspiciously. Is that what he wants? To do away with the world, build it up anew in his own image?

For Varys, who wants to preserve the world – to build it up too, but without burning it down – the thought is horrifying.

“We never truly leave our homes behind, do we? I will be Littlefinger of the Vale until the day I die,” Lord Baelish says with a wry chuckle. “You have been in this city such a long time, you have been Aerys' man, Robert's man... yet there is a part of you still in Essos?”

Varys almost shows his shock. Yes, there is a part of him in Essos – a plan he has devoted himself too. Fuck, how does this boy _know_ that?

Petyr steps in, lips pressed firmly to Varys' smooth cheek. An Essosi gesture, one of greeting – the kiss is perfectly chaste, but it goes through Varys like he was just shoved to his knees. He raises his arms in defense, pushes the boy away. Petyr looks bemused by his outrage.

It takes him a moment to recover his composure. “...I do not like you, Littlefinger,” he declares.

And Littlefinger laughs, his teeth bared wolfishly. _He wants something,_ thinks Varys. He still doesn't know what, but he knows the man will burn the world to ash to get it. _I have to stop him._

“I'm sure that's true.”

 


End file.
